Ittttt’s Christmas!!!!! If you turn on the telly you certainly might think so, given how dominated commercial breaks are by festive ads. And at least two people on our road have already put up twinkling lines of fairy light in readiness for the big day.
However, I’m afraid I’m having none of it. No decorations, no Slade or Mariah or Wham!, and definitely not any talk of Christmas trees. Aptly enough, I have refused to let the kids watch The Grinch at least until December comes around.
It’s a cliche to say that Christmas seems to start earlier each year, and I don’t quite feel that; although a gigantic tree has been in position on our high street since the start of November, albeit as yet undecorated. I even heard an excerpt from The Nutcracker on BBC Radio 3 while I was driving home from work last week; I obviously had to switch over to Radio 2 immediately.
As far as my children are concerned, once Halloween is out of the way, the countdown to Christmas can begin. My daughter’s birthday, in mid-November, provides an alternative focus for her at least, but now they are both champing at the bit to string up tinsel and crack open some baubles.
Needless to say, they think I’m a massive Scrooge, and they secretly listen to “Merry Christmas Everyone” when they think I can’t hear. Really though, they don’t know how lucky they are.
When I was a child, the tree went up only on Christmas Eve, decorated madly by me and my brother in our desperation to start the seasonal merriment. We would then untangle last year’s streamers and drape them artfully over picture frames and between doorways, from which they would inevitably be knocked down by our dad walking into them.
Pop music in our house was limited to a small number of cassettes, none of which was Christmas-themed, and neither of my parents would listen to radio stations that were likely to play Band Aid or Wizzard. Until we got old enough to put on Radio 1 ourselves, therefore, the music which signified the start of Christmas was Victor Hely-Hutchinson’s “Carol Symphony”, a glorious piece made famous in part by its use in the opening titles of the BBC’s 1984 adaptation of John Masefield’s The Box of Delights. Again, we had to wait until Christmas Eve before listening to it, our excitement by then at fever pitch.
With the benefit of hindsight, I understand that my parents’ primary motivation in delaying the festive fun was to prevent two small boys from spending the whole of December in a state of hyperactivity. But it did also ensure there was no festive fatigue by the time that Chrimbo itself came along.
Their approach might seem extreme by today’s standards, and we certainly did our level best as we grew up to breach the Christmas Eve embargo. Still, there is something in it: seeing adverts filled with crackers and turkey before advent has even begun is just plain wrong.
My restrictions will be tested this weekend, as the town Christmas lights are formally switched on. It’s not exactly on the level of Oxford Street, but the high street will be thronged with people, the whiff of chestnuts (and chips) in the air, and screechy children will be warbling out carols to adoring crowds. To not attend would be uncivic, but if the kids think that Berkhamsted’s Festival of Lights signals the start of Christmas in the Gore household, I’m afraid they’ve got another thing coming.
The next week will be thin gruel all round. The lights will be kept dim, music will be quieted, and nobody must mention Santa, mince pies or holly wreaths until 1 December at the earliest. Anyone breaching the rules will find coal in their stocking come Christmas morn’.
And whatever happens, the kids must not find out that when I was out doing karaoke last Thursday, I merrily sang along to “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” – even though it isn’t. Yet. Oops.
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